


Simple as a Knitting Pattern

by aniat



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:09:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aniat/pseuds/aniat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders knits horrible excuses for sweaters and gives them to his friends. Not everyone has a hard time being grateful, though. Kink meme fill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple as a Knitting Pattern

**Author's Note:**

> Short and sweet little fill for this prompt:
> 
> "In Awakening, one conversation with Anders can end in him saying that after the blight is over, he's going to take up knitting and make sweaters for templars.... what if that does indeed happen (sans the templar part). 
> 
> In Kirkwall, everyone who befriends Anders eventually gets a horrible lumpy monstrosity that only vaguely resembles a sweater. Anders knows they're horrible and doesn't expect people to wear them, he just likes knitting and enjoys the looks of horror he gets when he presents someone with one of his masterpieces. Except when he gives Fenris one, the elf looks stunned, then genuinely grateful, and then he keeps wearing the sweater whenever it gets cold enough.
> 
> Anders thinks Fenris is mocking him, but Fenris really does like it... it's the first item of clothing someone gave him as a true gift, not a piece of armor meant to make him look even more intimidating."
> 
> http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15195.html?thread=57673563#t57673563

Hawke is the first to get one.

 

Anders meets them just outside Darktown, and she raises an eyebrow at his cheerful smile.

 

“You’re in a good mood. Kill any templars on the way here?”

 

The mage just shakes his head, still smiling as he digs into his bag to retrieve a big lump of wool that vaguely resembles a sweater.

 

Hawke blinks.

 

“I - what is this?”

 

“It’s a sweater.” Anders replies excitedly. “We’re heading to Sundermount, and you’re always complaining about how cold it is.”

 

She takes it with much the same caution one might take a large venomous spider, unfolding it carefully.

 

It is a deep red, covered in both lumps and holes. One sleeve is visibly lower than the other, and in the center is what she can only assume is supposed to be the Amell family crest, designed in thick golden wool.

 

Isabela peeks over her shoulder with a very poorly disguised snicker, and Aveline just looks between the two of them like she might be missing something.

 

Hawke feels like she might be too.

 

“I, um. When did you take up knitting, exactly?”

 

“A few weeks ago. I’ve always wanted to do it, but never found the time.” There’s a pause in which Anders looks at her expectantly and Hawke stares back, dumbfounded.

 

“Oh! I- thank you, I suppose.”

 

Anders smiles brightly. “You’re welcome! Shall we get going?”

 

“Ah, yes. I believe we should.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh! Ma serannas - it’s _lovely_!”

 

“So,” Varric starts, shuffling the cards and glancing to the door beyond which Anders has apparently greeted Merrill with a brand new sweater. “What in Andraste’s name is up with Blondie and those crimes he calls sweaters?”

 

“I have no idea.” Hawke shakes her head, trying to peek into the hall where Merrill is still babbling excitedly. “I’m starting to worry about his mental state.”

 

“I’d pay good coin to see Daisy’s face right now - I bet she’s struggling to find nice things to say about it.”

 

“I think she’s trying to compensate for the fact that she will never wear it.”

 

“Mine has a boat that looks like _fleshy bits_ on it.” Isabela pipes in, half-amused. “I think he’s trying to tell me something.”

 

“He showed up at the barracks to give me mine.” Aveline sighs. “He’s a fugitive apostate and he _went to the barracks_ to give me a _sweater_. This is getting out of control.”

 

“I swear I was less worried when he was turning glowy and mildly murderous.” Hawke shakes her head. “At least that is a brand of crazy I know how to deal with, but this?”

 

“You know what I would really love to see?” Varric chuckles. “If he gave one to Broody.”

 

Isabela’s eyes light up immediately, and even Aveline snickers, slightly drowned by Hawke’s loud laughter.

 

“ _Andraste’s knickers_ , can you imagine?” The pirate smacks a hand down on the table. “We have _got_ to be there, Varric.”

 

“Let’s make sure Broody comes next time - at the rate Blondie is going, he’ll have another one ready by next week.”

 

“I cannot wait.”

 

* * *

 

“Are they coming?” Is the first thing Hawke asks when she opens the door for Varric, grinning madly. “Please tell me they’re coming.”

 

“They will be here.” The dwarf replies, and Isabela whoops excitedly from inside the estate. “Blondie says he’s going to be late, though. I think he may be applying the finishing touches.”

 

“I think it’s sweet.” Merrill says as they walk into the dining room, cards deck already waiting at the table. “We shouldn’t be making fun of him.”

 

“I’m pretty sure _he_ is making fun of _us_ , Daisy. Have you seen the monstrosities he knits?”

 

“But he went through all the trouble! I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

 

“Are you _ever_ going to wear that sweater, Kitten?” Isabela raises an eyebrow at her, and Merrill blushes.

 

“I found a very nice place for it in my closet.”

 

“Of course you did.”

 

Anders is indeed late. They’ve just finished the first hand when he arrives, bag thrown over his shoulder.

 

“Sorry, the clinic was quite busy tonight. What did I miss?”

 

“Varric won.” Hawke says, narrowing her eyes at the dwarf. “ _Again_.”

 

“I think he cheats.” Merrill informs helpfully. “Isabela always cheats.”

 

“He does cheat, Kitten.”

 

“I knew it.”

 

Anders chuckles, then starts digging into his bag.

 

“Fenris.”

 

The elf looks up at him, nodding curtly. “Mage.”

 

“I have something for you.”

 

The table goes quiet as if by magic. Hawke, Varric and Isabela all lean forward in their seats, watching intently. Anders pulls a vaguely sweater-shaped _thing_ from his bag and presents it with a large smile.

 

Fenris blinks, reaching for it slowly. It is dark blue, with big lumps of wool all around it and an almost unbelievably uneven hem. A design in lighter blue around it is presumably meant to represent the elf’s lyrium tattoos, though the shapes are crooked at their best.

 

It feels like everyone is holding their breaths in the pause that follows. Fenris examines the sweater slowly, expression unreadable, as Anders waits expectantly for a reaction.

 

Then the elf nods solemnly to him.

 

“Thank you.”

 

There’s a slight hint of awe in his tone, but nothing to compare with the looks around the table. But he doesn’t stop there - Fenris actually strips himself of his spiky spaulders and reverently pulls the sweater over his head.

 

It looks ridiculous. This a heart-ripping, mage-hating, lyrium-powered warrior wearing a horrendous excuse for a sweater knitted by none other than an abomination.

 

Isabela looks like it’s the best thing she’s ever seen in her life.

 

Even Anders is staring wide-eyed by this point, mouth hanging slightly open.

 

“So - you like it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The mage’s dumbfounded expression turns into a frown. “You don’t have to mock me, you know.”

 

Fenris tilts his head questioningly at him.

 

“Well, look at it!” Anders gestures at the sweater, smile nowhere to be seen. “It’s _awful_.”

 

“So you _do_ know!” Hawke narrows her eyes at him, and Anders has the decency to look bashful.

 

“It is a gift.” Fenris replies, as if that settles everything.

 

“Well, _yes_ , but I didn’t expect you to actually wear it. I just wanted to see your reaction.”

 

“Told you he was messing with us, Daisy.”

 

“I like it.” Fenris announces, tone final. “Whatever your intentions, it is a gift. I will keep it.”

 

Then he reaches for the deck and starts shuffling.

 

* * *

 

Fenris doesn’t take the sweater off for the whole night, not even when he leaves the estate to go back to his own mansion. Anders just glares suspiciously at him the whole time, like he expects the elf to suddenly turn on him and rip his heart out for giving him something so outrageous.

 

It doesn’t happen. In fact, Fenris looks oddly pleased as they chat away over cards and wine, sweater jokes flying constantly back and forth. He never partakes in any of them, doesn’t even acknowledge how painful ugly it is. Anders just frowns harder.

 

“Seems like the joke's on you, Blondie.” Varric pats the mage’s shoulder as he stands to leave. “I think I even saw Broody crack a smile. It was unsettling.”

 

“I think it’s so sweet!” Merrill sighs. “He really likes it, doesn’t he?”

 

“Are you joking?” Anders snaps at her. “No one could like _that_.”

 

“I’m so glad you know that.” Hawke shakes her head. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to look grateful for that?”

 

“I know.” Anders half-smirks. “Your face was _priceless_.”

 

“You’re a little shit, I hope you know. Maybe I should cook for you - see how you like that.”

 

“I think murder is a bit of an extreme response, don’t you?”

 

Varric chuckles. “Hawke, I say this is in the nicest way possible, but I wouldn't wish your cooking upon my worst enemy.”

 

“Shut up. I can make a bloody good sandwich.”

 

* * *

 

Fenris shows up to next week’s game wearing the sweater.

 

Anders visibly bristles as he walks in, and Isabela shakes her head with a sigh.

 

“Alright, handsome, it was funny at first, but this is getting really boring now.”

 

“You’re wearing the sweater.” Anders states, glaring. Fenris tilts his head only slightly.

 

“I am.”

 

“Why are you wearing the sweater?”

 

“It is warm.”

 

“Alright, Broody.” Varric sighs, rubbing his temple. “The sweater is awful, we’ve agreed on that much, but you can stop teasing Blondie now.”

 

“I do not think it’s awful.”

 

Anders starts on an indignant reply, clearly expecting mockery, but stops. There’s a pause in which he blinks slowly, as if trying to wrap his head around Fenris’ statement.

 

“You - you don’t?”

 

“No.” Fenris sighs, looking away. “Slaves don’t get gifts. It is the first item of clothing I’ve ever received that is not supposed to make me look more intimidating. Thank you, mage.”

 

Anders stares, jaw slack, for a few painfully long moments until Hawke kicks him under the table pointedly.

 

“Oh! I, ah - you’re welcome, I guess.”

 

Fenris nods, then takes his seat at the table. The silence stretches until Isabela speaks up.

 

“So, I broke a guy’s nose today.”

 

Two days later, Anders shows up with a pair of terribly knitted socks and thrusts them into Fenris’ hands.

  
He smiles.


End file.
